


More Like Beasts than Men

by Ranni



Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Avengers Family, Avengers fighting-non Civil War, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Foricble Commmitment, Gen, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Mental Institutions, Minor Bruce Banner/Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Nick Fury is mad as hell, Nick Fury saves everyone, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, incarceration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-30 20:06:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: Bruce is stuck on a mountain, Tony's in the hospital, Steve goes to jail, and Clint has been committed. Each tries to piece together the fight that put them there while Natasha and an extremely pissed SHIELD director come to their rescue.





	1. Spy Daddy

  
*******

Clint wakes up in the hospital in restraints, and that, in itself, is not unusual. He has a history of waking up badly, of coming back to consciousness swinging, fighting, his body trained since childhood to respond to the end of dreams with an immediate broadcast of _runrunrunrunrun_.

What he is _not_ used to is being restrained because the medical personnel is completely convinced that he is mentally ill.

He feels awful; his body feels like its been through hell, but Clint immediately knows there is something else. His need for self control has always been so complete that he shuns anything that would alter his thinking, his reactions--he hates to even take Tylenol if he can avoid it, caffeine being his one and only vice--so he recognizes the effect of drugs right away.

And he is absolutely awash in them. There is a hyper real yet faraway quality to everything, as if he is viewing the world through five layers of slightly warped glass. His arms and legs don't seem to want to respond to his brain in a timely manner. Of course, there's not much they can do anyway, being tied down, as is his middle, a wide velcro strap pinning him snugly to the bed while also undoubtedly shaping his waistline quite nicely. A low buzzing rings constantly in his ears and he shakes his head back and forth, trying to drive the sound out.

"Hey," a voice says far too loudly, a man's face suddenly close to his, appearing out of nowhere. He flinches back in surprise and sees the man--he's a doctor, if the stethoscope and white jacket are any indication--frown minutely, sharp eyes cataloging his every response. "Can you hear me?"

He tries to answer but can only manage "......uhhh?" The doctor keeps shining a penlight in his eyes and Clint wonders vaguely how long it would take for the tiny light to burn a hole in his cornea if the doctor never moved it away.

"You're in the hospital. You've had a psychotic episode. But you're safe now, we're going to keep you safe."

 _I'm not crazy_ , he wants to protest, but the message short circuits somewhere between his brain and his mouth and evaporates, leaving him with nothing but a garbled mash of vowels and soft consonants.

The doctor frowns, shines the light in his eyes again.

*******

They must give him different drugs then, or more the first kind, a _lot_ more, because things go very watery.

He's aware of someone, or a pair of someones, manhandling him into a shower while talking cheerfully to each other about weekend plans and someone named Fred.

A television drones on and on, some sort of daytime game show playing interminably.

Next he hears someone speaking very loudly and snapping their fingers near his eyes. Reflexively Clint reaches out to grab that hand and break those goddamned fingers, but he's slow--horribly, frighteningly slow. He not only fails to grab the hand but misses it entirely, instead knocking the person limply in the chest with a half curled fist. The person makes a surprised sound, however, so it's sort of a win.

Then there's nothing for a really long time until a man's voice, gruff and croaky, but soothing all the same, is encouraging "That's it, atta baby, open up" and feeding him oatmeal so flavorless that it's like eating pure texture instead of food. But it's something, something real and not so distressingly dreamlike, and Clint latches onto the moment the best he can. He swallows the food and tries to open his eyes to see the person in front of him, only to realize a few moments later that his eyes are already open, have likely been open the whole time, and the man wavers into an unsteady focus.

He's brawny and bald and his hospital scrubs don't cover the tattoos that peek out of his collar and sleeves. There's even a few up behind his ears, and Clint thinks to himself that it's just the right amount of ink, just the right sort of person to wake up to. This guy looks like he could be mean as hell if he wanted to be, but he isn't; instead spooning oatmeal carefully into a mental patient's mouth. This is the kind of guy that Clint Barton can get behind, can understand. His mouth twitches up into a smile that feels weak and shaky from disuse.

The man pauses in surprise and then smiles back. A good smile, with a missing top canine that adds to the charm. "Hey, buddy. Are you looking at me? Lookin' at me for _real_?"

Clint's throat is all thick with oatmeal and he has to clear it a few times before struggling out "...Yeah?"

"Kickass," the man proclaims earnestly, grinning again. "Let's get the rest of this goop in you and then I'll get the doctor."

*******

"Can you tell me your name?"

They must have him as Coughlin, the name that SHIELD had paired long ago with his fingerprints, the one that pops up whenever he lands in civilian hospitals. But he hasn't used it in a long time, and everything's so wobbly that he struggles to come up with the corresponding first name. "Scott?" he answers, hating how it comes out as a question. The name sounds right, though. Familiar. "Scott," he says again. "Scott Coughlin."

The doctor frowns. "Your name is Clint Barton. Isn't that right?"

Clint stiffens, hopes the shock doesn't show on his face. That name shouldn't be anywhere, should belong only to a foster care kid who ran away ages ago and never resurfaced. SHIELD had seen to that, Clint's sure of it. He wonders then if this is all some sort of trick, someone using drugs and fake doctors to get him to give up information.

"I....uh...." His mind is so sluggish that he can't recover his conversational footing, unsure about how to respond next and undoubtedly broadcasting that confusion with the world's worst poker face. They obviously know his name; he's accidentally told them, or someone else did. The only thing accomplished by arguing the point will be to make himself look crazier. "Yeah. Clint."

"Why did you say your name was Scott?"

Clint shrugs. Only one of his shoulders responds jerkily. The other hurts. He looks down at his arm and realizes it's in a cast. Huh. Okay.

"Do you remember being brought here?"

He doesn't. The last thing he remembers is them gearing up to go...somewhere. Almost certainly a mission, because he'd had his bow along. They had seen something terrible, and then there's a long string of vaguely formed memories that he can't catch or organize at all. "No," he admits.

"You attacked someone," the doctor tells him, then asks, "Do you know why you did that?"

"No." God, it could have been for a number of reasons. The person could have been HYDRA or AIM or someone from any period of his life looking to settle a score. Or maybe Clint was being mugged and just defended himself. That's a possibility, right? "Who?" he manages finally.

"I don't know who it was; you were fighting a man in the street. He broke your arm. You cut him quite badly with a knife."

"Oh." He doesn't remember that at all, but it doesn't sound completely out of character, and, frankly, like an appropriate response to someone breaking his arm. "Sorry," he adds, because it seems rude not to.

"Can you tell me why you were fighting?"

"No." There's a vague memory of taking a walk somewhere and being angry at Tony. And then sparring with Steve on the sidewalk, which doesn't sound quite right. Surely it hadn't been _Steve_ he was fighting. Steve would never break his arm, and he would certainly never cut Steve with a knife. He swallows uncomfortably. Those memories aren't right. They can't be true.

"You were taken to the emergency room and were so out of control that they had to restrain you," the doctor goes on, unaware of Clint's climbing unease. "You've been here since. Where do you live, Clint? Are you under a doctor's care?"

 _I live in Avengers Tower and my primary care physician is the Incredible Hulk_ , Clint longs to say, and struggles with the imulse to both laugh and cry at the absurdity of the situation--being in a hospital drugged to the gills and unable to tell the truth about anything without appearing crazier. 

*******

He feels a little less zombiefied a few days later, as he adjusts somewhat to the torrent of antipsychotics they force on him. He's finally able to string together whole sentences between huge waves of doped up sleep and attempts to talk his way free.

"I refuse medical care," he tries, and "I want to check myself out. I want to leave the hospital." Each time the doctor just smiles sympathetically and shakes his head and tells him he has to stay for his own good, until he's stable, that they just want to 'make him better'. Clint hears those words so often that he thinks he might develop a Pavlovian vomit response.

He tries not to take the pills, palms them from the cup with shaky hands or hides them in his cheek, but the bald nurse--whose name is Jerry and was in a biker gang before he found Jesus--is a pro and has probably forgotten more medication tricks than Clint Barton ever knew. He has all the drugs switched to liquid form and then Clint can't get out of taking them.

He asks and Jerry tells him he's been in the hospital almost three weeks. It's unbelievable that SHIELD hasn't come to get him yet. Clint is admitted under his own name, for God's sake; it's not like he's exactly hidden away. There's a slight terror that maybe SHIELD stuck him here on purpose--the lost time before waking up here is concerning--but he chalks that paranoia up to the drugs and refuses to acknowledge it. If SHIELD did decide to cut him loose as a bad asset, they wouldn't go about it this way. And even if they did, Natasha would come get him. He's sure of it.

Well, _p_ _retty_ sure of it. There's still that troubling memory of him fighting Steve, and possibly Tony.

Clint can't dredge up Natasha's phone number from his soupy memory, but he _can_ remember the SHIELD emergency number--he could probably recite that fucker with full amnesia as many times as Coulson had made him practice it. Jerry gamely calls for him but then apologizes and hangs up immediately when the person on the other end chirps "Leanne's Washateria--we're open 24 hours a day and have a change machine on site!"

"Let me talk to them," Clint begs. "Or just say my name. Just say 'Barton'. They _know_ me." But the nurse doesn't go for it.

"Let's not waste the lady's time, huh?" he advises kindly. "Who did you think was gonna answer?"

"My...uh...family."

"You know, it's okay if you don't have anyone to call. You can just tell me that, there's no shame in it."

"It's the right number," Clint insists. "They can't answer their phone openly." He knows how helpless and foolish he sounds, and the hilarity of it hits him all at once. "They're spies," he confides, fighting a bout of hysterical laughter. "I'm a spy, too. A super spy!" He does laugh this time, so hard that tears spring to his eyes. He tries to wipe them away and ends up poking himself in the nose instead with uncoordinated fingers. "Ouch." He laughs some more.

"It's okay, kiddo," Jerry says, patting his arm and looking a little sad.

Clint realizes that actually his whole _life_ sounds pretty funny. "Remember about a year ago, that dick that came and tore up New York City? I helped him; I was there. I almost brought down an invisible flying aircraft carrier with a bow and arrow. I tried to help aliens conquer the world, and I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those pesky Avengers!" He shakes his fist dramatically, still grinning, then adds "My best friend smashed my face into a rail and then sucker punched me. That's our cure for crazy. Hey, Jerry, how about YOU punch me in the face and see if it helps?"

The nurse just raises his eyebrows and later that day there are additional medications added to an already sizeable list.

Whoever claimed that honesty is the best policy has obviously never been forcibly committed.

*******

The doctor wants him to draw a picture about his feelings. Clint grits his teeth and says nothing, because there is literally no artistic way to convey the shit sandwich that his life has become. He considers drawing a picture of himself pointing and grinning at the corpse of the doctor--good old Dr. Pillpusher with x's over his eyes and his tongue lolling out--then decides that might not be his best idea. Clint draws a rainbow instead, disturbed by the shakiness of the lines, the way his hand has trouble gripping the stupid giant crayons.

The doctor looks at the picture doubtfully. "What does this represent to you? Can you write it out?"

Clint sighs as quietly as he can, then scrawls out 'Peace. Love. Tranquility. Excellent mental health.' He probably shouldn't add the last part, but can't resist. Then he blinks in horror to realize half of his letters are transposed, and all the printing almost illegible. 'Tranquility' has come out 'tarqillnty' and is so crooked that it looks like it is dripping down into the red part of his rainbow.

He needs to get out of here.

That night he has the vague idea of tying his blankets together and jumping out the window. It's so badly thought out and poorly executed that he never gets beyond a few clumsy knots, and he thinks that Natasha would die of second hand embarrassment if she knew. But instead of Natasha seeing him, the night nurse does, and she assumes it's a noose he is attempting to create.

They tie Clint down again and blast him off to pharmaceutical heaven.

*******

He's laying in bed but if feels like he's on a boat, rocking on the ocean. He hears angry shouts that sound a little familiar, and that might be worrisome if anything was capable of bothering him right now. Instead he just drifts and listens to the ringing in his ears.

A man's face suddenly looms down over his.

Clint closes his eyes and would push him away but his hands are still cuffed. The man grumbles and takes off the restraints and lifts him up easily with strong arms. When the room tilts and dips Clint tries desperately to catch himself, accidentally throwing an elbow into the man's throat and knocking himself in the face with his own casted arm.

"Goddamn modern medical bullshit!" the man hisses, and drops him bonelessly into a wheelchair, pushing him carefully back upright when Clint sags over the armrest. "Sit your ass up, Barton, and if you drool on me, I will pop your cracked-out head straight off your neck!"

His voice is angry but his hands are gentle, and Clint recognizes him at last. He manages to open his eyes just in time to see Dr. Pillpusher cross his arms and frown from the doorway.

"Spyyyyyyy," Clint slurs at the doctor triumphantly, jerking his thumb to point behind himself towards his savior. "I _told_ you guys. Spy. Came for me. He's my Spy Daddy."

"You are a gigantic pain in my ass, Clint Barton," Nick Fury growls, and takes him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Steve, the unhappiest cosplayer in county lockup.


	2. Superfan

When Steve wakes up he's killing everyone.

He can't remember the exact details of what happened after they landed the jet, why the four of them landed on the outskirts of this town and hiked into it. There's just a vague memory of getting angry at Clint and Tony, who were arguing. Then the Hulk was there, but instead of worrying about him being near a civilian center, as he usually would, Steve had just gotten madder. Then everything was a blur of red tinged fury until the toxin they'd been exposed to started to burn out of his metabolism. Because of the serum, it leaves him first.

It starts to wane while he is still fighting--sitting on top of Clint and raising a fist to beat the life out of him. Tony pulls at Steve's shoulders ineffectually from behind, pleading, begging for Steve to _stop, think, listen, stop_. Clint is hurt, his left arm bent sickeningly at two different angles, but still fighting back and spitting curses. The last thing Steve does before his head clears entirely is to turn, lift Tony by his collar, and toss him away. He collides with a nearby building and hits the ground limply.

"Holy shit, he just _killed_ that guy!" a woman shrieks, and a man with his cellphone out, recording everything, mutters "Oh my God. Oh my God." There are angry shouts and worried murmurs from the growing crowd and the sound of sirens.

And then Steve is back, all the way back, horrified at what he has done. People hover over Tony, who is unconscious at best and dead at worst. Clint is still rabid beneath Steve's restraining hands, covered in blood. Steve gapes at the sheer quantity of it and is searching for a wound when he realizes the blood is coming from himself, dripping from his face down onto Clint's in a steady red rainfall.

"Hands up! Get off of him!" a policeman shouts, his gun at Steve's eye level. "Now, right now!"

Steve raises his hands quickly, aware of more drawn guns, but doesn't move, keeping Clint pinned with his legs, his body weight. "He'll hurt someone," he tries to explain. "He's not himself." They yell some more until Steve finally complies, finally rolls off Clint, who leaps up immediately to attack again.

Steve lets himself be shoved to the ground and handcuffed, trying to keep an eye on Clint, who they finally bring down with a taser and cuff as well, paying no mind to his broken arm. Clint starts struggling again and Steve winces as they shock him twice more before chaining his legs, as well.

There's only one ambulance and Tony, being unconscious with a terrible head wound, is given priority. The EMS crew moves fast. Tony doesn't move at all.

 _I did that_ , Steve thinks sickly. _I did that_.

He's pulled to his feet roughly and one of the cops wraps a towel around the top of his head, looping it under his chin. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig," he remarks with obvious disgust. "Gonna ruin the back of my cruiser."

*******

Once in the emergency room the officer uncuffs Steve long enough to remove his jacket. He does a double take and laughs when he sees Steve's uniform. "Nice Captain America getup you have there, Superfan," he scoffs, throwing his head back and laughing again. "Jesus, you look like a goddamned goofball!"

Steve isn't really inclined to argue at the moment.

A frowning resident is taken aback by Steve's injuries. "What on earth happened to you?" Steve's face has nearly been sliced off, a ragged cut running from his eyebrows all the way down and around his jaw and halfway back up the other side. The resident cleans the area carefully and begins the first of many sutures. "You'll need to see a plastic surgeon," he advises, and Steve doesn't bother telling him that he really _is_ Captain America, that the serum will heal him quickly.

There's a commotion from down the corridor--doctors and nurses yelling, security officers running past the curtain partition--and Steve's pretty sure he recognizes the voice screaming threats and obscenities. _Clint_. The toxin had worn away from Steve quickly, and he hopes that Clint won't be far behind in coming out of it, but things don't sound very promising.

The police officer gets up to peek out of the curtain when a very flustered doctor pushes in past him. "Where's the guy who--?" He focuses on Steve. " _You_. That guy you came in with--what is he on?" he demands angrily. "PCP? Bath salts?"

"What's going on out there?" the officer asks.

"He's actually trying to kill us. He's crazy as hell and also some sort of--I don't know--fucking karate expert or something. I'm still trying to decide if he needs Haldol or an exorcism!"

"He's not well," Steve urges, feeling sick himself, knowing it will be impossible to explain the toxin or how they had been exposed. He needs to contact SHIELD. Fury will fix everything--his people will take care of Clint until the effects wear off, and he can explain away Steve's behavior, everyone's behavior. They must all seem like madmen to people looking in from the outside. "He's really not like that at all. He's just sick."

"Suuuuure," the officer says, voiced laced with disbelief. "He's so sick that you decided to break his arm and beat him to death? How about the other guy, the one you tried to throw through a brick wall? I suppose you did that because he's sick too, has cancer or something."

"Is Tony here?" Steve asks desperately. "Is he okay?"

"His name is Tony?" The doctor takes out a notepad and starts writing. "What kind of drugs does Tony use? I need to know, right now."

Steve sighs in frustration. " _His_ name is Clint Barton, and he doesn't do any drugs at all. Tony is someone else."

"Tony is the  _other_ buddy Superfan tried to kill," the officer interjects with mock helpfulness, snickering. "Not to be confused with the crazy bastard down the hall."

"I didn't mean to hurt them. Please just help them. Both of them."

"We'll punt Karate Guy to Psych after we set his arm. He can be _their_ problem." The doctor glares at the police officer and jerks his chin to indicate Steve. "And this jackass can be yours."

********

A shocking number of stitches later--Steve still isn't sure exactly how he had come to be cut up that badly--he's loaded back into the squad car and taken to the police station. The intake officer sighs at Steve's bloodstained outfit, looking bored and decidedly unamused.

"Name?" she asks, eyebrows raised to her hairline and lips pursed in a don't-give-me-shit expression.

"Steven Rogers." He shrugs helplessly at her irritated disbelief. "That's my name. My name really _is_ Steve Rogers."

"Yeah, of _course_ it is. Date of birth?"

He wishes that he could answer literally any other question. "July 4th...1918."

"Uh huh." Her eye roll is a visual treatise on disdain, scorn, and utter contempt. "Every single full moon," she laments in a loud, long suffering voice, throwing up her hands, "all you crazy bastards just pour in like cockroaches. Dear Lord, deliver me from this _bullshit_!"

Steve doesn't say anything else as she fingerprints him and takes his picture. He holds up the intake number and hopes it covers the star on his uniform.

He is put in a cell with several other men. A couple of them snigger to one another, gesturing at Steve. When Steve raises his eyebrows in faint challenge one of them smirks and says "You must really love Captain America."

"Not today," Steve admits.

*******

It's boring, jail is boring, but Steve is too worried about Tony and Clint, as well as wondering where Bruce is, to be too concerned about himself. He lays on one of the bunk beds and examines his hands, which he used only a few hours ago to try to kill two teammates. There's dried blood under his fingernails. It's probably his, he had been bleeding everywhere, but he can't be positive that some is not Clint's. He almost _wants_ it to be, wants his guilt to be that much more complete.

He thinks of the HYDRA base, of the men there killing one another, more like animals, like beasts, than men. Whatever had compelled those men toward violence had also infected him and Clint and Bruce somehow. He's not sure if Tony was affected as well, or if he had been spared by his Iron Man suit. Steve imagines that he had probably looked the same as those HYDRA operatives, hateful and snarling, as he fought his teammates. It's a mercy that the serum allowed him to metabolize the toxin so quickly; with his superior strength he could have killed them easily, could have gone on to rampage through that town to hurt many others.

He feels sick even imagining it.

*******

It's late the next day when the officer that drove him to the hospital opens the cell door and points at Steve. "Come on. You're being transferred."

"Where?" Steve asks.

The officer shrugs and grins. "That's _your_ problem, Superfan. The feds are involved now. Maybe one of those guys you hurt died in the hospital. Maybe you're a murderer now." He looks a little gleeful at the thought.

Steve is considering that possibility with horror when he's shoved through the next door into a room where Nick Fury waits with Jasper Sitwell, looking angry as hell. "I'll take custody of the prisoner now," Fury says smoothly, cuffing him none too gently as Sitwell remains behind to take care of the paperwork.

Steve tries not to let the relief show in his face but his knees are a little wobbly as Fury marches him out to the waiting car. "I'm really sorry about all of this, Director."

"If I'd wanted to come drag someone's sorry ass out of jail for fighting, I'd have had kids of my own," Fury snaps. "You four assholes are on my permanent shit list!"

"Understood," Steve nods, and doesn't complain when he's left handcuffed the entire car ride.

*******

He is deposited at a hotel that sits glumly between a highway and a shopping mall. Natasha greets him with folded arms and a frown, which, in all honesty, is not significantly different than one of her usual welcomes.

"How is Tony?" Steve asks immediately. He hadn't dared to ask Fury, who had been dangerously silent. He'd stopped the car and thrown a hotel keycard and handcuff key at Steve as he got out, bouncing both off the back of his head, before peeling away to reclaim Sitwell.

"He's in rough shape, but Pepper says he'll be okay. I'm going over to see him tomorrow morning; you can ride along if you want." Natasha hands Steve a duffel bag which, blessedly, is full of his own clothing. She dutifully turns around so he can change, her eyes trained on a piece of bland wall art.

"And Bruce?" He strips quickly, never happier to take his uniform off.

She shrugs. "We haven't found him yet, and he hasn't contacted anyone. None of the civilians mentioned a Hulk, so he must've disappeared before you guys started all the slapping and hairpulling. My best guess is that he'll sulk for awhile and lay low, then finally decide to sack up and call home. When he does, we'll go get him."

"Clint?" He finishes dressing and touches her shoulder. Natasha turns back around, looks him over, nods curtly in approval.

"They stuck him in a psychiatric hospital and have an emergency court order to keep him there. The doctor won't allow visitors. Fury's trying to find a legal way to get him, but I'm sure Clint will break himself out before that happens; he's wily that way." Natasha reaches up and tilts Steve's head carefully from side to side, examining the stitches. "These will need to come out soon. Who did this, Clint or Tony?"

"I think maybe Clint did."

"An odd choice for him," she observes. "I wonder why--if he had a knife and wanted to murder you--he tried to peel your face off instead of just cutting your throat?"

"I have no idea. This is a nightmare," he moans, sinking down onto one of the beds.

She snorts and sits beside him, tracing the garish pattern of the bedspread with one finger. "Calm down, Steve. It's not the worst thing we've dealt with. No one is _dead_."

"That's not exactly a measurement of success," he points out dryly, and she shrugs again in mild disagreement. "How is the press handling it? People had phones out, were recording the whole thing."

"There's almost no coverage at all. The local paper of this town--St. Joseph Missouri, by the way, and _what_ a shithole--did a piece on it. You'll want to read it for yourself, but I think my favorite part was 'A man dressed in a Captain America costume brutally beat two men before being subdued by police officers'."

"Oh, God."

"I've already picked up a few extra copies," she adds. "I know Tony will want one, and Clint will, too, as soon as he gets out of the loony bin." She smiles with dark humor, then sobers a little. "Now, if you've asked all your questions, I have some of my own."

Steve sighs. She'll probably demand to know why he broke Clint's arm, or what he'd been thinking when he'd attacked Tony. Why he hadn't stopped Bruce from taking off. Why they had landed the jet in Missouri in the first place, how they came to be here. All the questions that Steve has no answers for.

Natasha grabs his arm, her face fierce and cruelly beautiful. "Steve," she says seriously. "I _need_ to know."

"Natasha, I--"

"What did you use to make your prison shiv, and which orifice did you hide it in?"

Steve can't help but laugh, and in his relief reaches out and pulls her close, surprised when she lets herself be moved, even more so when she hugs him back. "I suppose the jailbird jokes won't go away any time soon."

"Just wait till Tony finds out. It'll be like his personal Christmas."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent several of my formative years in St. Joseph, Missouri. It's a hellhole, but it does have a psychiatric hospital and a lot of flat, outlying areas that a quinjet could land in. I used to work at the northern Wal-Mart as a teenager, and Eminem's grandmother shopped there all the time. She was extremely unpleasant and yelled at me once over the price of bananas and made me cry. In fairness, I was a bit of a ninny back then.
> 
> Next up: Bruce's Appalachian walk of shame.


	3. Hypothetical Hot Wing Hulk Out

 

When Bruce wakes up he's on a mountain. It's covered in trees and reminds him of the Appalachians, maybe even the Blue Ridge Mountains. That's good; he's been much farther away than coming down from a Hulk out, but Appalachia he can work with.

He steels himself and looks down, and...yep. Naked again. And his glasses are gone, too--the sixth pair Hulk's lost him this year.

There's nothing to do except start walking. He can see well enough; the moon is big and full. It's almost beautiful.

*******

He can recall only pieces of the fight that led him here. Most of it he remembers as the Hulk, and the big guy's memory is always anger-tinged and somewhat unreliable. The last memory he has as Bruce Banner is being irritated at everyone. They had been having a good time and Clint had to ruin it by getting mouthy, and of course Tony had to escalate everything. And then, rather inexplicably at the time--now he realizes that whatever had infected the HYDRA base had nailed them, also--the Hulk took over.

The ironic part is that the toxin caused him to lose control, but the second he transformed it was neutralized, and for the first time ever Hulk was one of the calmer members of the team.

The rest just comes as fragmented flashes. A memory of Steve, anger twisting his face unrecognizably as he snapped Hawkeye's arm. Hulk didn't like that at all, had grabbed Steve and sailed him high and far into the air, where he couldn't hurt anyone else.

A memory of Clint, still howling in pain, jumping onto Hulk's back like a deranged monkey, cursing and tearing futilely at green flesh with only one working arm. The Hulk actually found that pretty funny, had even laughed as he plucked Clint easily off and threw him to the ground, a lot more careful than he'd been with Steve.

A memory of Tony yelling at everyone, gesturing wildly, but not attacking.

Of Clint picking himself off the ground and charging after Steve, Tony following, all of them being drawn further into the town limits, closer to people.

 _Run_ , Bruce whispered desperately then, _run away. Tear out trees, smash crevices into the earth, run forever, run till our heart explodes--just don't hurt Tony or Clint or Steve or any other people. Please just run far away and oh my god PLEASE DON'T HURT THEM._

And Hulk had listened. Had run away from houses, streets, from the places that men go. He ran until it was quiet and destroyed everything around him until the anger burned away.

*******

The Avengers arrived at the HYDRA base before SHIELD, prepared for a fight and finding one already in progress. They watched in horrified disbelief as men and women tore each other apart like animals, ripping out throats, gouging out eyes. It was a bloodbath and even the Hulk within Bruce recoiled in disgust.

"We have to stop this," Steve said, but the people were obviously beyond reason, compelled to these acts by something outside their will.

" _How_?" Bruce asked helplessly.

"Maybe SHIELD will be able to do something for them." Tony sounded doubtful, and with his Iron Man faceplate up Bruce couldn't really tell what he was thinking.

"Better to put them out of their misery," Clint countered pragmatically, fingers twitching toward his bow, and Bruce silently agreed. But not out loud; he'd never agree to a thing like that out loud. Steve shook his head definitively and Clint sighed and shrugged. "Your call, Cap. Who knows, maybe a few of them can be stitched back together and go on to have a great time living out life in SHIELD prison as blind, armless men."

They secured the doors so that none of those affected could escape and spread the assault, then waited for SHIELD to arrive and take over.

There wasn't really much else to be done.

*******

He hopes he'll come across an abandoned hunting cabin, or a landfill, or _anything_ before he gets to a road or to a town. If he can just find a scrap of material to cover himself with before he runs into other people, that'd be a blessing. The Hulk is a gigantic pain in Bruce's ass, and a steady diet of humiliation is high on a long list of ways he dislikes the monster.

But despite their mutual loathing there is a small sense of brotherhood, of comraderie. Bruce doesn't have to be afraid to be lost in these woods. If he trips and breaks a leg, or he runs into a bear or something, he doesn't have to worry. The Hulk would take care of it. He'd probably deforest the entire area, as well, but he'd take care of it--of _them_. In turn, Bruce takes care of the people Hulk likes. That list is small, almost negligible, but it exists. At the top is Betty Ross, who Bruce protects best by staying the hell away from her. It also includes the Avengers, who are stronger and safer to be around.

It feels good to have people again.

But now Bruce is worried about them, and Hulk is, too--a sick unease that thrums beneath his skin. SHIELD surely got to them quickly; one of the last things Bruce heard was Tony calling for JARVIS to send help. Bruce wonders how long the team remained violent; the HYDRA men had obviously been fighting one another awhile before the Avengers discovered them, judging by the amount of carnage and the weary way they moved despite their ferocity. He shudders to think of how much damage Tony and Steve and Clint could do to one another in a few minutes, much less over hours. 

Bruce and Hulk hadn't hurt anyone, at least. _This_ time. There's that, he can hold on to that.

Steve won't be able to say the same, will probably berate himself for weeks over Clint's broken arm, will mope and apologize and wring his hands every bloody moment until the cast comes off. The argument could be made, perhaps, that Hulk had hurt Steve when he threw him, but he'd really been going for distance with the throw--getting him away from Tony and Clint--rather than force. It's doubtful that Steve is even bruised from it. Of course, he had lobbed Steve further into town when he should have aimed away; a miscalculation on his part, but the Hulk isn't really known for thinking things through.

*******

Bruce wonders idly, as he does in times like this, what unknown factors might trigger a transformation. Will it happen if his feet get cut up too badly by the rocks and sticks beneath his aching feet? If he grows too cold as night falls? In the early days of the team Tony had been consumed by those kind of questions, had picked at Bruce endlessly with different scenarios.

"What about being hungry?" Tony asked at dinner one night. He speared a piece of broccoli on his fork and examined it suspiciously before taking a bite. "Could being super hungry make you Hulk out? I mean, it pisses _me_ right off, and I'm a normal guy." He shrugged at their skeptical expressions. "Well, more normal than _Bruce_ is, anyway."

"Okay, I'm a bit curious about that myself," Steve admitted.

"About hunger triggering an episode? I doubt it." Bruce thought about it a little more. "I suppose if I were _starving_ , near death or something--it would be possible. But I also don't have any intention of testing that out." He gestured toward the table. "Hence, all the dinner I'm currently eating."

"But pain is a big factor." Tony raised his eyebrows and Bruce shrugged in a _sure, whatever_ gesture. "How _much_ pain? How little? There are _different_ types of pain, even. Like, what about hitting your funny bone really hard?"

"Or falling on your keys?" Clint wondered. "I did that once. It wasn't enough to fall into a dumpster; I also had to land on my keys."

"What if you had a really bad headache?" Natasha asked.

"An ice cream headache!" Tony interjected. "The most terrible kind of headache, because something so painful following something so sweet is the worst of betrayals."

"How about plucking a nosehair?" Steve asked, looking pleased with himself for thinking of it. "That hurts like hell."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at Steve. "How about if you accidentally sat on a testicle?"

The four men exchanged a sick, uneasy glance, and Tony coughed and crossed his legs. "I don't intend to find _that_ out either," Bruce managed finally. "And, hell, I'd probably be too busy vomiting to transform."

"Hey, Bruce," Clint asked around a mouthful of chicken, "would taking a really painful shit make you Hulk out? Like if you'd had really spicy hot wings or some curry or something?"

Tony threw his head back and roared in pure delight. Even Natasha laughed as Steve frowned. "That is _so_ inappropriate--"

"I'm just _asking_ ," Clint pointed out with exaggerated, wide eyed innocence. "And I feel like, as a housemate, I deserve some advance warning if this is possible. If Bruce could conceivably go into the bathroom, groan a bit, then come bursting out as the Hulk, toilet paper hanging off his foot and everything."

Bruce had to laugh also, pressing his hands over his eyes, leaking with tears. "How? How is this _even_ my life?"

And really, after a conversation like _that_ people either immediately become your worst enemies or your best friends, and it's pretty obvious what side of that equation Bruce Banner came down on.

  
*******

He stumbles across a house at last--it's more of a glorified shack than a house, lonely at the end of a dirt road. There are no lights on inside but Bruce has no intention of knocking on the door anyway; he's not eager to have a shotgun pointed in his face and also whoever lives here doesn't deserve the inevitable Hulk-out, especially when they are just attempting to get a good night's sleep in their own damned house.

If Bruce's life were a movie there would be clothes hanging on a line, miraculously in his size, that he could steal. Maybe even some old boots laying around. But while there _is_ a clothesline--which he discovers by walking into it and nearly shearing his head off--there's no laundry on it, because it's the middle of the fucking night. He sighs and pokes around a little more, ears perked up for anyone waking up inside, any dogs that might start barking.

There's an unplugged freezer sitting on the porch and bunch of naked Barbie dolls with ratty hair laying in a basket near the door, but otherwise it's a tidy little house and yard, the work of people who are proud and careful despite their poverty. Bruce can respect that, and admire it, but he's also a little disappointed that these folks can't be just a _tiny_ bit cluttered and messy, because he needs some of their cast-offs to cover up with. Finally he steals the plastic tarp that covers the woodpile, feeling pretty guilty about it. Maybe he can make it up to them, later. Send some money with a note-- _I'm sorry I stole your tarp, but I was naked and needed to get home._

He walks alongside the dirt road for awhile, winding his way down the mountain. When he's maybe a half mile from the house he goes into the woods a little further to lay down, wrapping the tarp around himself like a burrito. It's not so bad; he's slept in far worse conditions.

*******

Bruce wakes up late the next morning groggy and achy. He's also plenty hungry, having just come off a Hulk out that included a run of at least eight hundred miles. He thinks of Tony saying _Being hungry pisses me right off_ and smiles a bit. He briefly considers Hulking out again just to run back to Missouri, or up to New York. It's a stupid idea, a passing fancy that he dismisses immediately, but it's fun to muse about it a little, imagining the look on Nick Fury's face if he just burst into SHIELD headquarters, roaring and demanding lunch.

Then he thinks about the HYDRA men, torn limb from limb and still snarling, imagines Tony that way--or Clint or Steve--and it isn't as funny anymore. He fastens the tarp around himself to make a plastic blue toga and starts walking again.

*******

The dirt road becomes a gravel road that becomes an unpainted winding stream of asphalt. He vacillates on which direction to choose, but then decides to go west, mostly so the sun isn't in his eyes. He hears Tony in his mind, whispering  _What about a bad sunburn? Would that make you Hulk out?_

There's nothing for hours and he's regretting his choice of direction pretty heartily before he comes across the first sign of life since the little house--what looks to be a rundown bait and tackle shop with two ancient, rusted trucks parked outside.

Bruce takes a deep breath, swallows what tiny sliver of pride he has left, and goes in.

*******

There's no pay phone--such things barely exist anymore--but _everyone_ has a cell phone, even old men that chew on toothpicks while shooting the shit in baitshops in the middle of nowhere.

Natasha answers immediately. "Fucking _finally_ , Bruce. Where are you?"

"In Virginia, I think," Bruce says under his breath. "Or West Virginia. Or North Carolina. One of those. I'd ask, but I've exceeded my capacity for humiliation at the moment."

"Never mind, JARVIS is tracking this and will tell me. I'm leaving now, right now. Do not move so much as one hairy toe before I get there."

"I won't, I promise. See you soon, Natasha."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she mutters before hanging up.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it." Bruce hands back the cell phone, cringing a little as the older man wipes it off on his shirt, probably unconsciously, before putting it back into the pocket of his overalls. "She's gonna come pick me up."

"Mmhmm." He continues giving the dubious evaluation he started the moment Bruce walked in. "Why the hell are you dressed like that, boy?"

Bruce sighs and shrugs helplessly. "I'd tell you, but the truth is actually more ridiculous than any lie I could come up with." He jerks his head back toward the door behind him. "Thanks for letting me use your phone," he says again. "I'll just wait outside, out of the way, until my friend gets here."

They don't say anything back, just watch suspiciously as he makes a hasty exit. He settles in the woods, out of sight but still close enough to keep his eye on the road. He also considers digging a hole and burying himself alive, then decides that might be a bit too melodramatic.

Anyway, Natasha would probably be pissed.

  
*******

As it gets dark the lights go off and the two trucks pull away from the bait shop, but about an hour later one of the men, the one that loaned him the phone, comes back. "Still here, fella?" he calls from his truck.

"Yeah." Bruce picks his way toward him, coming to stand at the edge of the trees. "My friend is on her way, but she's coming a pretty good distance, I guess. Just waiting for her."

"Uh huh." The man lights a cigarette, the end glowing orange in the dark. "I brought you something to wear. No need to be bare assed when your missus shows up." He holds out a large paper sack. Bruce hesitates, then crosses over to take it. "Brought you a sandwich, too."

Bruce hopes the moonlight doesn't betray the surprise in his face. "That's really nice of you, thank you."

"Ain't neither of them fancy, but better than nothing, I suppose."

"Well, I'm not a fancy guy, and I really appreciate it."

"Uh huh." Bruce sees the older man tip him another skeptically appraising look--he is really the grand master at them, making even Nick Fury seem like a blushing novice--then drives away.

*******

Natasha couldn't find anywhere flat enough to land the jet nearby, and had been forced to land much further away and then rent a car. It's almost morning and she's in a terrible mood by the time she arrives. She does a double take at the threadbare sweatshirt and pants, the folded tarp in his hands.

"What _are_ you wearing?"

"The kindness of strangers." He sinks into the passenger seat with weary relief. "Now, tell me everything."

And she does, the best that she knows it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Tony explains the Missouri layover and all the face slicing. He also doesn't pussyfoot around. Unfortunately.


	4. Frankenstein on a Gravel Road

*******

When Tony wakes up he's in the hospital. His head is numb and feels about twenty times larger than normal. Pepper is holding his hand and tells him he's alright, and that she loves him.

Those sound like good things. He goes back to sleep.

*******

They were pretty quiet for a long while after leaving the Hydra base. There wasn't much to say and too much to think about. Bruce and Clint sat together in the back, sometimes murmuring in low voices--mostly Bruce talking and Clint offering an occasional "Mmhmm" or "Yeah". Tony glanced at Steve, who was sitting in the co-pilot's seat and gazing out the window. He looked utterly dejected, reminding Tony so much of ads for animal shelters that he was tempted to have JARVIS cue up some maudlin music to complete the effect.

Instead Tony started smacking buttons and nosing the jet down.

Steve looked up in surprise. "What's going on? We can't be home yet."

"We aren't. We're making a pit stop. I want a hamburger."

"A hamburger," Steve echoed incredulously. "We're still technically on a mission and you want to land us in the middle of God-knows-where...for a hamburger."

"Exactly right; you got it." Tony grinned at Clint, who had come forward to see what was going on. "We've had a hard day, Barton, and I'm calling a time out. Wanna get a burger? If you're a very good little bird I'll even buy you a milkshake."

Clint blinked in surprise, then shook his head in reverent awe. "You really _are_ a genius. Holy shit, wait till I tell Bruce!" He disappeared into the back of the jet and Tony grinned at the excited rise and fall of Clint's voice as he relayed the plan, at the sound of Bruce's quiet laughter.

Tony shushed Steve theatrically when he started to protest again. "My jet, my stomach, my plan."

Tony knew that Steve needed someone like him around, someone that knew that occasionally it's good to be spontaneous, to do something fun and pointless, especially when they were too often faced with the worst aspects of humanity.

*******

He put them down in a field just outside what was either a tiny Midwestern city or a large Midwestern town--Tony was sure that either way it would be big enough to have a burger joint or two.

Steve sighed disapprovingly again, but Tony could tell it was mostly for show, that the captain's resolve was wavering a bit. He could use a break as much as any of them, and was probably hungry anyway, with that souped up metabolism of his. Tony punched him lightly on the arm on their way to the back of the jet. "Come on, Steve, quit being a stick in the mud."

"Isn't that my job?" Steve asked with a smile, definitely warming up to the idea now. "Being the team's wet blanket?"

"But you're a very very _cute_ wet blanket," Clint pointed out with a fond, teasing grin. He pulled off his tac vest, replacing it with a Mr. Bean t-shirt. Tony never ceased to marvel at the man's endless supply of horrible shirts, all of them silly or otherwise completely incongruous to his chosen line of work. "I hope you brought some other clothes along." Clint nodded toward Steve's Captain America uniform. "You don't want to hit some small town greasy spoon diner in _that_ , do you?

Steve hadn't brought anything, and none of the extra clothes they kept on hand for Bruce would fit. Tony dug out a black SHIELD jacket someone had stuffed into a storage area that would work; Steve wouldn't stand out too much as long as he kept it zipped up. Clint locked up his bow, Steve's shield, and their other weapons with a theatrical sigh. Bruce watched them all with a mild excitement, bouncing on his heels a little.

"Keep an eye on our gear and the suit, JARVIS--we are off on a noble quest for sustenance," Tony announced. "If any locals get near the jet, self destruct immediately. Just kidding," he added hastily in response to Steve's disapproving expression. "Give them a ten second warning... _then_ self destruct."

*******

They only had to walk a few minutes before coming to a gravel road that ran to the edge of town. Tony frowned at the tall weeds dotted with delicate yellow flowers that grew alongside, pretty sure it was ragweed, the stuff of allergy nightmares. He was just getting ready to bemoan his snot filled future when Clint made a low, disgusted sound.

"Damnit, Tony," he snapped. "Do you think you could possibly stomp any louder? Like, if you tried really hard?"

Tony snorted. "Well, excusez-moi. Not everyone pussyfoots around as silently as you do. I'm sorry that my walking--nay, that my very _existence_ is such a bother to you."

"Not your existence, your _stomping_. The crunch of those rocks is reverberating in my skull. You sound like  _Frankenstein_ over there, schlepping around in cinderblock shoes."

"Knock it off," Steve interjected, sounding a little put out himself. "Can't you guys get along for five minutes strung together? Christ Almighty, I feel like I'm babysitting _infants_ on this fucking team!"

Tony was taken aback, surprised at the swearing and finding that response disproportionate to a little bickering--really nothing different the endless, but good natured, griping he and Clint always aimed at one another. But, at second glance, Clint didn't look especially good natured, any more than Steve did. His jaw was tense and his eyes flat, the way they looked when he was actually angry.

"Shut up, Rogers, you goddamned _tool_ ," Clint sneered, and it felt like a rock dropped onto Tony's chest. The looks on their faces, the way they stopped walking and started to vaguely circle one another, the way Bruce lowered his head and started breathing hard--it was familiar. Not because it was their battle stances, but because Tony had seen something similar that very morning, as those HYDRA operatives tore each other to pieces.

"Guys--" Tony started to say, but it was too late; Bruce's skin was tinged green and Steve was already snarling back.

"Pretty tough talk coming from the weakest link on the team. Anybody with a gun and an IQ over fifty could do your job."

And that did it. The toxin they were exposed to in the base had activated in their bloodstreams--Tony only spared because he'd been in his Iron Man suit--and that's what really fueled their anger, but that statement was the one that tipped Clint over the edge from verbal attack to physical. His foot connected solidly with Steve's chest, knocking him back a few steps with a gasp, but he recovered instantly, moving forward himself as Clint came at him again.

"Hey, _guys_ \--" Tony tried again, but it was all happening too fast.

Steve caught Clint's arcing fist and snapped his arm neatly, laughing as the smaller man collapsed to his knees. The Hulk was there then, Bruce Banner long gone, roaring angrily at Clint's cry of pain. He snatched Steve up and hurled him so high and far in the air that it would have been comical in any other situation.

"JARVIS, call Fury," Tony snapped into his phone. "And emergency services. And Natasha. Fuck it, call everyone!" By the time he looked up again the Hulk had vanished, just a vague form heading into the horizon. Clint had rallied and was sprinting toward Steve. Tony cursed and took off after them.

*******

Now they were in the town limits, near some sort of factory or processing plant that stank to high heaven. People milled about in the parking lot, a new shift arriving.

Clint was a damned fast runner even when not fueled by adrenaline and white hot rage, and had, from God knew where, also produced a knife. He promised to leave all his weapons in the jet like everyone else, but of _course_ he hadn't, of _course_ he'd lied. Usually that would be something they would roll their eyes at, to rib him gently about his unending paranoia, but now it was fucking terrifying--bringing a blade into this mix of unbridled aggression. By the time Tony reached them Steve had Clint pinned to the ground, but Clint barely seemed to notice as his hand flashed forward, brutally slicing up around and through Steve's face.

"I'm going to fucking _kill_ you!" Steve roared, and Tony knew that he would, and that Clint would attempt the same. There was nothing, _nothing_ , left then of the men they had been only minutes before, friends who had been walking along a gravel road in search of a hamburger.

"Yeah?" Clint kept slashing, Steve's blood dripping down on him in a torrent of red. "Well, I'm going to cut that stupid grin off and _facefuck your screaming skull_!"

"Oh my god," Tony moaned. "That just happened. He really just said that."

Steve growled and grabbed Clint's broken arm, snapping it again, this time up high near his shoulder. Clint howled in pain, and Tony used the distraction to snatch the knife out of his hand and toss it away. People were running over from the parking lot, drawn by the shouts and commotion.

"Steve, _stop_! Get off him!" Tony pulled at his shoulders but he was as heavy and immovable as a statue. "That's _Clint_ , come on, stop and think! You'll hurt him, come on, don't do this!"

Then the last thing Tony remembered was Steve turning toward him with furious eyes, and flying through the air.

*******

When Tony wakes up again, a doctor is hovering in front of his face, frowning. "Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me who the president is?"

"I can tell you that your breath smells like you sucked down a shit milkshake through a straw made of lower intestines," Tony rasps groggily and hears Pepper laugh, feels her fingers lace through his.

"Oh, thank God. That's him," Pepper's voice says, and he turns his head carefully to focus on her. There are tears in her eyes but she's smiling. "That right there is one hundred percent Tony Stark."

*******

"This hospital is a hillbilly hellhole," he tells her a few days later. "Why are we even still here?"

"You had brain surgery, Tony," Pepper explains again, her patience wearing a bit thin. "You can't transfer to a New York hospital just yet. Quit being such an elitist snob."

Either no one in this lousy place recognizes the name Tony Stark, or they simply do not give a damn who he is. Everyone from the doctors to the nurses to even the custodial staff seems to be completely immune to his charms--which are plentiful--and perhaps the most cheerless group of people on the planet. He'd almost respect their groupwide disdain it if weren't so personal and annoying.

Pepper seems to get a kick out of it, at least.

"Well, where the heck is everyone? No one is visiting me. I don't even have flowers," he pouts, deliberately not looking at the table full of flowers and balloons directly to his left.

" _I'm_ visiting you," she points out. "Steve was here two days ago and Nick stopped by before that; you just don't remember it."

"Visits don't count if the person is comatose or out of their minds on drugs." Pepper sighs in exasperation and Tony blasts her with his most winning, wheedling grin until she smiles back. "But really...where _is_ everyone? Are they okay?" She's been disturbingly tight lipped about the team's status.

"Natasha picked up Bruce out east, then they went back to SHIELD headquarters to try to determine exactly what everyone was exposed to. No one wants a repeat of your fight, or of what happened in that HYDRA facility." She frowns sympathetically. "Steve says what happened there was rather upsetting."

The man has a gift for understatement. " _Almost_ as upsetting as watching my best friends try to murder one another. So Steve sounds like he is doing okay. What about Tweetie?"

"He's in the hospital, too."

" _Here_?" He sits up a little, wincing at the jolt to his equilibrium. "Clint's in Hellhole Medical Center?"

"No, he's in a psychiatric facility. Nick is trying to get him released to SHIELD's care. No one has seen him, so we don't know if he's still suffering from the toxin. He's the only regular human that was exposed; so they don't know if it would dissipate naturally or not."

Tony is horrified at the thought of Clint locked up somewhere, maybe still out of his mind, and Pepper frowns warily at the look on his face. "What about the HYDRA guys? Did any of them recover? If _they_ did, Clint should, too."

She just shakes her head, and that's answer enough. They're all dead. And really, after the condition he'd seen them in, maybe that is a kindness. "Don't think about Clint right now," she urges. "Steve and Nick are still here in town, taking care of it. You just rest and heal, then you can worry about everyone else."

******

It's two more agonizingly long weeks of IVs and CT scans and blood pressure checks and frowning doctors before Tony is released from the hospital. He signs the discharge papers with a flourish and swears a loud oath never to return to western Missouri as long as he lives, no matter how much he wants a hamburger. The nurse narrows her eyes at him in silent agreement before snatching her pen back out of his hand.

Steve drives them to the airport in Kansas City, where Pepper has chartered a private plane to take them home. He is barely able to look at or speak to Tony, exhausted and worried and still feeling guilty.

"Oh, get off the cross, Cap," Tony snaps when they finally arrive. "We need the wood."

"I could have killed you," he says morosely, holding Pepper's bags as she helps Tony struggle gingerly into a jacket. His eyes flicker to healing incisions on Tony's head, then away. "I'll never be able to undo that."

"Bring our little Cuckoo Bird home safe and we'll call it a wash. Deal?" Tony grins and holds out a hand to Steve, who shakes it gently.

"Deal."

*******

They get Clint out of the hospital two days later, then he has to detox a few more days in SHIELD Medical. Natasha goes to pick him up as the rest of them order food and settle in the communal living room for what Tony insists on calling a "love-in". Steve has just arranged all the takeout containers somewhat artistically by size and color on the coffee table when Clint and Natasha burst through the door.

"I'm back, bitches!"

Tony jumps to his feet to embrace him, the five of them finally together again after almost a month, and thinks that if only Thor were here, it would be truly perfect. "About time! You've been gone forever." Clint hugs him back tightly, and Tony notes with alarm the vague tremor that runs through him. He sends Natasha a questioning look over Clint's shoulder, but she shakes her head quickly in warning.

"I wasn't sure Psych was going to ever let him out again, once they had him in their clutches _and_ pre-medicated," she teases, pulling Clint away from Tony. She pushes him down onto the couch next to Bruce, who puts an arm around him and pulls him close with unabashed affection. "You must that know that half of those drugs were things they've been dying to try on you for years."

"It was like you were held hostage _again_ ," Tony observes. "I swear, only _you_ could manage to escape from one captivity incident and fall immediately into another. I'm honestly amazed that you didn't somehow get shot on the car ride home from the hospital. Your disaster seeking skills are just that finally honed."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Clint waves the idea away. "How's the head, Tony?"

"Sexy, just like the body below it. My skull, though, has some new accessories. I'd show you the x-ray, but everyone's eating right now."

"We just started," Steve points out, glancing uncomfortably at Clint's broken arm. "You're welcome to forage and pick or we could order more--whatever you want. What sounds good?"

"I'll take anything you have that's deep fried and dripping in trans fats," Clint says cheerfully. He still looks a little wan, probably from the drugs, which he's being forced to step down from slowly to avoid complications. "For weeks I ate mostly applesauce and oatmeal; they wouldn't give me anything that required more than a spoon."

"As if the likes of you couldn't murder someone with a _spoon_." Tony is offended on his behalf. "Anyway, Steve here could've taught you how to sharpen that spoon to a razor edge."

Steve huffs a long suffering sigh. "I was barely in jail a full 24 hours," he points out, smiling a bit. "Not even long enough for someone to bake and mail me a cake with a file in it."

"Well, you deserved to be in that pokey. Popping off arms and smashing in skulls--that's not how an Amercian hero rolls." Tony is joking, of course, but regrets it immediately at the unhappy look that replaces Steve's smile.

"I am so very sorry. I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you guys."

"Eh, fuck it," Clint says dismissively. "I'm sure we all learned a bunch of life lessons from this. The most important journey is the one where we find ourselves, blah blah whatever blah." He pretends to wipe away a tear, then picks through the take out containers, his eyes lighting up to discover one full of crab rangoon. He grins happily and settles back against Bruce, hugging the cardboard box to his chest.

They eat in a comfortable silence before Steve says "You know, I have to admit that I'm a little curious as to why you decided to try and cut my face off, Barton. I don't suppose _you_ remember, do you?"

"He tried to cut your _face_ off?" Bruce asks, both horrified and impressed. "What in the actual hell?"

"I have no clue," Clint admits around a mouthful of food. "I mean, why didn't I just slash your throat? That's what I would usually do." He looks at Natasha, who shrugs.

"Well, I might be able to answer that question," Tony says reluctantly, "but it doesn't lend much credibility to the 'Hawkeye is actually sane' team line."

"This I _must_  hear," Natasha says seriously, and the others nod in wary agreement.

"So, Cap broke Clint's arm, and he was pretty mad about it. Madder than, you know, the original amount of mad he'd already been. Hulk flounced off and Clint came charging up toward Steve and screamed--and I quote--" Tony trails off, reconsidering. "Actually, I don't think I _can_ repeat it. That, or any of the other things that were shouted back and forth. I think everyone's better off not knowing."

Clint and Steve exchange an uneasy glance. "Aw, Tony, quit being a tease."

"I'm not trying to be. I think it's honestly best if we just know that everyone said and did assholish things, and leave it at that. The specifics are...unnecessarily ugly."

"As unnecessarily ugly as Hulk's face?" Bruce offers in an attempt to lighten the mood . "As unnecessarily ugly as Nick Fury's methods? As unnecessarily ugly as Clint's archery stance?"

They all laugh, even Clint, but Tony warns "Better watch that kind of talk, or he'll cut you up. The way I hear it, that dude's _crazy_."

"Ain't that the truth," Clint says. "I can't be held responsible for my actions; I was having a psychotic episode. That's a documented fact, written down, like on official letterhead paper and stuff."

"I brutally beat two men while wearing a Halloween costume, then went to jail," Steve adds, smiling again.

"I destroyed a pristine forest and then robbed a family that was living in squalor."  
  
"Well, I'm sure you all suffered terribly," Tony scolds, "but I really think _I_ had it the worst. Because not only did I end up in the hospital with a hole in my head, I ended up in a _teaching_ hospital. I'm ninety percent certain I was given more than one rectal exam while unconscious."

Bruce makes a sympathetic face. "You win. But at least you didn't sit on a testicle," he points out. "There's _that_ , I suppose."

The other men all wince delicately, and Natasha laughs until she cries.


End file.
